


Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass

by Margarine



Category: The Age of Madness - Joe Abercrombie
Genre: Gen, i guess the good thing about waiting til september is that we can pretend things are gonna be good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28801926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Margarine/pseuds/Margarine
Summary: In Carleon Stour Nightfall lies half dead in a cage, and Rikke has to chose whether to use her heart or a stone. The young, strong and hopeful lord governor of Angland has lost all but his youth. Savine dan Brock has lost everything, everything but a husband, a child and a brother. Black Calder might want his son back, and the king of the Union has a meeting scheduled with the king of Styria.
Comments: 18
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Daamn, the Trouble with Peace had such a bittersweet ending. How to wait eight months I don't know, meanwhile have this!  
> The title is from Tchekov - because the moon's shining, the world's turning, but how we know that is through the people that make it work, the individual emotions, experiences, etc. But mostly it sounded pretty nice. ALSO thanks to Proud Dust from the TFL discord server for the beta work.

Stour Nightfall, in his cage, was a wreck of what he used to be. At least he didn’t cry, though you always thought he would with that wet stare of him. At first, he had threatened, then growled, then muttered, and now he was mostly silent. He would have done the same thing to her back when he could, out of cruelty, so what she did to him was righteous revenge. Though the difference probably only lies on the side of the cage you’re in. Though the difference blurs after the first few days of him starving and shitting himself. Rikke was finding it hard to laugh at someone shitting themselves. Always had. But the Nail, Isern, Carleon, they never found something as amusing as Stour Nightfall huddled in his cage, half-dead and not much snarling anymore. Rikke had to draw the lines when they started throwing things.

She wondered sometimes what Black Calder was up to. She heard he was a man to grip tight on something and not let go. People weren’t going in line to oppose her nowadays. She had the Long Eye and Shivers on her side, but Black Calder hadn’t struck her as the superstitious kind or the cowardly one, whatever anyone had to say about it. Everyone knew he had ruled the North during Scale’s reign, and if anything that was something that took guts. He hadn’t seemed so impressive, compared to his father, his brother, or his son. But look what happened to those three. Bethod’s chain had a vicious tendency of tightening around the neck of their holder, the golden rope of the hanging tree. Bethod himself hadn’t died of old age, needless to say. And it was Rikke’s turn, now.

“You tell me, Shivers…”

Shivers looked up at her. He was sitting near a window, warming his face up in a pool of sun.

“The Bloody Nine, he killed your brother.”

“That he did.”

“And you could have killed him, after that.”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“But,” she said with an urge she didn’t understand in her voice, “you coulda stuck your axe into his face and you didn’t.”

“Yeah.”

Shivers had closed his eyes again, and that eye that wouldn’t close was glinting silver.

“Why didn’t you?”

Why did she want to know so much, all the sudden? Why did she feel personally involved?

“Cause that would’ve gotten me nothing. Revenge is endless, and bitter. You make your peace with it or you keep hurting yourself as much as the other fella.”

You would’ve thought it was a priest from the foreign Gurkhul shedding words of peace to his pupils, and not one of the bloodiest names of the North.

“What would life be if the brother of everyone you ever killed started coming at you for payback?” he added, and Rikke wished he hadn’t, cause she knew she had either killed many people’s brothers or stumbled on a mad number of single-child families.

“You think my da wouldn’t like this, don’t you?”

 _This_ was huddled in the cage, seemingly asleep, grunting and moving from time to time. Been a while since he last spoke. Was it herself or Shivers that was meant to answer that question?

Shivers rubbed his fingers absent-mindedly, and that ring he never left was glinting crimson.

“I can’t speak for the dead. What I think is if you have something to do, you get on with it. Kill him or release him, there’s no shame in either. But if you ask me, it’s a job halfway done.”

That left her rather surprised. Maybe it’s because they’re alone with the cage or maybe he’s been thinking about it for some time, but she’s not used to Shivers disagreeing with her. Maybe that shows how far gone she is. She’s not used to anyone disagreeing with her anymore, openly that is. Might be that he’s not afraid she’ll curse him with the Long Eye, cause he brought her on his own shoulder to get the damn thing sealed. Might be that he’s not afraid that she’ll make him fight her champion in the Circle, cause it’d be a very lonely fight.

“I see,” she said. “Thanks for being honest.”

Though it would have been simpler if he hadn’t.

In Zuri’s arms, the baby was wailing. Truth be told, he was easing up faster in her arms than in Savine’s, so she let her hold him most of the time.

A little boy. How fitting. An heir for the great Leonault dan Brock, hero of the revolution and new king of the Union. Raised by a woman of taste and a man of principles. Perhaps that would’ve been her childhood if it had been her father and not her mother that had taken her in at birth, though one could argue that King Jezal’s principles were rather flimsy, and Queen Terez’ tastes rather dubious. Instead, her baby would be raised by a crippled father and an addict mother. Hard not to feel close. Hard not to think of it. Her parents had been in love and she couldn’t complain about her childhood, but they weren’t parents someone would’ve asked for. Only those nature gave her. She wanted to be a mother someone would’ve wanted. The Leo of this universe, the one who didn’t become king, he couldn’t even hold his son in his arms. She thought of the pearl dust on the nightstand, and about throwing it away. Strength she could find, if she had someone who depended on it. Someone had to raise this child in a world that would hate him. Son of traitors, like Leo’s father had been before him. As if people never learned from the mistakes of the past. As if that would surprise anyone.

Zuri was rocking the boy with a tenderness no syndicalists in Adua would’ve imagined. Savine hoped to be a good mother, and she had no idea how to. Something in Leo had shattered that day along with his leg, had crumbled along with his standard, had died along with his friends. Some months ago, some centuries ago, she had drawn a light from him, devotion, and laughter, and trust from a well that never seemed to dry. Now it was a light she had to summon from herself, to make him smile, to make him talk. He wasn’t a cynic, which was as well since she knew she couldn’t have lived with her father all over again. She knew he tried hard. And that the leg wasn’t the worst pain for him. Like a flight of swallows that leaves at the end of spring, all his friends from the Open Council had deserted him as the wind turned. His Angland friends were dead or judged as traitors, the lucky ones sent on Union’s most dangerous battlefields, the others to the camps. Leo had his conscience eating him out, and Leo was lonely.

On a brighter side, the baby was calm now. And the knocking on the door had been faint, almost shy, but she couldn’t have been mistaken.

“Zuri?”

“Lady Savine?”

“Is Leo in his room?”

Through the window, just at the beginning of the afternoon, on the great place below his room, a man had proposed to a woman. Even from afar, you could see she was very rich, her dress every shade of cream colours and velvet like something Savine could have worn in the days. A paid fanfare had started to play some languid love song in the middle of the street, and then the woman slapped the man. What would Jin have said? Or, better, what would Barniva have said? Maybe he’d laugh with that rumbling belly laugh that made everything more amusing. Maybe he’d stare into the distance. Leo had played their memories until the lines had blurred, and sometimes it was Antaup he saw staring in the distance, although he knew Antaup never had quite that touch of melodramatic in him. And he had learned how to stop looking for Jurand around him like he had learned how to stop trying to stretch the leg that wasn’t there. He was responsible for both losses, after all. Maybe he should’ve died by hanging, but probably he should’ve died sooner, on the battlefield, before everything went to hell. For sure so many people would have been saved.

His mother went to see him, often. She didn’t cry as much now, but he wasn’t sure it was a good thing. He didn’t like to be pitied, but he liked even less the idea of her getting used to this version of him. He would’ve liked her to be surprised every time, to remember him as a young golden lion forever. She seemed older, hair streaked grey and voice softer, but Leo knew it was the only way things went anyway. His mother was just getting there faster. And she was a grandmother. But the thought of the baby always filled him with such bitterness, he pushed it away. He didn’t deserve a baby. He didn’t want to burden him, he didn’t want to curse him. He had wanted to teach his son how to fence, and ride a horse, and hold a shield. The shield, though, he supposed he could still do. And maybe the happiest life doesn’t go to the one who holds his sword the best. But that was all he knew how to do. What a failure of a father he was. What a bloody waste for his son.

Someone knocked on the door, behind him, and Leo didn’t look away from the window. It was too hesitant to be Zuri, and Savine never knocked. It may be Gunnar Broad, though Leo could only wonder why the man still came to check on him each time. They didn’t even get along. All they had in common was war and neither liked to talk about it, or at least not to each other.

“Leo? Can I come?”

The voice was soft and it still left him thunderstruck. In seconds that felt like millennia, he became hyper aware of his state. Of how he looked. He had a blanket on his lap covering half his stump, and he rearranged it quickly. His arm looked normal enough, as long as one didn’t try to shake his hand. Pushing on the wall, he turned his wheeling chair toward the door. It felt like the heart of a battle for the first time in forever as he wondered how to feel, what to think, but it had been awhile since he had to make an important decision and it had led to the death of a thousand men. 

“Yeah.”

He almost added please, and he didn’t, but he felt as if it could be heard in his voice. When the door opened and Jurand looked at him, and he looked at Jurand, his whole body ached. He supposed he should have felt happy, but it was only sadness and grief.

“Why did you come?” said Leo.

And his tone asked _Why didn’t you come sooner?_

“I thought you never wanted to see me again. I was in Westport. A message came from Lady Savine and she asked me to meet you.”

Jurand’s voice was a bit strangled.

“I heard you’ve gotten yourself some injuries.”

“Yeah that I bloody did,” grumbled Leo.

And that grumpy old man grumbling brought him suddenly back to Angland, after the Circle, limping around and sulking while they all made fun of him. Fond memories, now. He looked at Jurand to see if he remembered the same, but Jurand was only looking sad. He took a step hesitantly, their last meeting and their last words heavy between them. Truth be told, Leo couldn’t have cared less now. When Jurand lifted the blanket from his lap, he didn’t flinch. The left leg of the pants below the knee was floating down, empty.

“I’m sorry,” said Jurand, as though he had something to be sorry about, as though he hadn’t told him it was a bad idea from the beginning.

“I’d rather have lost both,” whispered Leo, “I’d rather they cut my arm, than lost Antaup and Jin.”

It was something he couldn’t have said to Savine, because she hadn’t known them, she hadn’t cared about them, and it would’ve betrayed what was sacred about the thought. Maybe she would’ve thought it was some thoughtless bravado. Jurand understood, though.

“I know. They were good men. The best of friends.”

“They loved me too much, they shouldn’t have followed me,” whispered Leo again, because he had never said that out loud and he didn’t want anyone to hear it. And still needed Jurand to.

“They were proud to.”

He wondered if Jurand really meant it, or if he was trying to make him feel better. It did make him feel better, just seeing him, so much like before in that world that wasn’t at all like before. Just a reminder that he had been the Young Lion, and that it had meant something more than the selfish ambitions people would know him for. That he had inspired people, good people.

“What about Glaward? You were with him? Is he alright?”

“We weren’t together.”

And the strange, double-edged sentence fell in an ugly way.

“He went near the Styrian border to blow up some steam,” added Jurand quickly. “Officially we’re not at war with them right now but people from both sides looking for battle, they go there. It’s more fencing than battle, really. He wished he could’ve gone with you against the king.”

“He would’ve died.”

“He knew there was a risk. The others did too. You asked them. They didn’t have to.”

It’s not just Jin and Antaup he’s talking about. It’s the troops of Angland. His people.

“Were you and him…”

Leo stammered. He didn’t like to think about this kind of thing, he really didn’t, but he’s had so much bloody time on his hands lately he didn’t have the choice. “Lovers”, he wanted to add, but it felt wrong. He wished Jurand would finish the sentence for him but Jurand was looking like a startled horse in battle, all wide eyes and frozen limbs.

“Were you and him together? Had it been a long time?”

It was the most awkward thing Leo had to say in forever. And it was painful.

“We weren’t in love. We aren’t.”

He felt relieved. Probably that it was just physical attraction, and not something even more wrong. He had meant to ask more things, he had even thought about some speech, but it was too much for him. One can’t ask another to change too fast.

“Are you gonna stay in Adua?” he asked instead.

The awkwardness was gone and Jurand’s smile was very warm.

“I’ve got nothing better to do.”

It was night, and it was freezing. The moon cast large shadows on the floor, distorted rectangular shapes, but she didn’t see his face.

“What’re you planning to do to me?”

The words were choked, and he said them in a tone he’s never had before. Very quiet, and very flat. Maybe it was hopelessness crushing him down. Maybe it was lack of water.

“I don’t know yet,” she said as if she did in fact know. “What would you do if you were me?”

“I’d kill me.”

She didn’t expect him to be this direct. But spending whole days rotting in a cage in the great hall of your enemy will effectively remove all slyness and schemes from someone who didn’t have much to begin with.

“My guts in the box, right?”

She needed the rush of anger.

“Clover told you this?”

“The dead told me.”

Actually, Clover peed on her on that day.

“He was with you since the beginning, then?”

“He wasn’t. But he didn’t need to be pushed hard. He might not have been your biggest admirer.”

“I always knew that. But I liked to have him around. He was a hero of the days.”

The Great Wolf’s voice was so hollow, you’d think he was already dead. Never a good time, finding out that the heroes from the stories would slit your tendons on the ground once you joined the story. She could leave, she thought. Go to sleep. She didn’t have to talk to him. Out of the blue, she wondered how much older he was than her.

“I received messages from your father,” she said suddenly. “He wants to see you.”

He shifted in the cage. She wondered why she was telling him all this. Pretended to wonder. She was only as oblivious as she made herself be. Sure, she didn’t know what to do. But when someone is in need of advice, you already know what they want to hear by looking at who they go to. Not Isern, but Shivers. And Stour.

“You’re going to tell him yes?”

“I already told him no. He keeps asking.”

“He doesn’t have many other people in his life.”

An only child. No mother. As if her da would’ve stopped asking, had she been in that cage. Black Calder was a conniving snake and a feared politician. But he probably was a father, too.

“Truth be told, he’s got plenty of friends. People owe him. And I don’t want a revolution growing ‘round on my lands. You saw how that went with the Union. So I might tell him yes.”

He didn’t say thank you, and that was just as well since it would’ve meant someone had swapped prisoners. But she thought she heard a breath released, from the other side of the hall.

She exited the building and left him there.

On the grass of the garden in front of the palace, Savine fed the baby with a spoon. She was sitting in the shadow of a great oak and, since the day was rather chilly, the rare people sprawling around the garden were staying in the sun. She, who always praised herself to stay off the beaten tracks and to do things others couldn’t or wouldn’t do, had to admit that sometimes the beaten tracks were beaten for a reason, and sunny and warm.

“He’s growing up nicely,” said a man’s voice out of the blue.

She had been expecting him, so she almost didn’t jump. But she had been expecting him to come from the other way, so she did jump a tiny bit.

“He is, isn’t it? Seems like the secret is the feeding.”

“Each and every mystery seems so simple once it is unveiled.”

“Indeed. You look happy.”

And he did. There was this kind of energy and purpose in the way he moved that she was not quite used to yet. She felt proud of him.

“Things are going very smoothly with the Open Council nowadays. I got them to vote that labour law, I never thought it would finally happen. Reduced work hours like what you did in Angland when you were there. Everyone was using it as an example.”

He coughed in a way that sounded suspiciously like “darling of the slums.” Mostly good humour, mostly fooling around, but a bit of steel underneath. A bit of an edge. She found it hard to laugh. Some points were still sore, and probably always would be. All her enterprises had been confiscated, given to the Union. Her houses, too. Her money, although she’d never run dry of it. It’s hard to hide a house, or to put it in a false non-Valint-and-Balk bank account. Money, though, is gold or paper notes. Orso was no fool. But the factories and mines and ships made plenty enough money, so he considered himself satisfied. She held a grudge, but probably not as much as she should have, given those businesses were all she put her life into. Years and years of her life. But she was alive, and so was Leo, and in much better shape those days with his friend around. At the end of that thread she had woven herself, of every bad decision strung one after the other like pearls, it was more than she deserved.

“What about Bayaz’ man, in the Closed Council? Wasn’t he against it?”

“Strongly. Although ‘not pleased’ would be the words he’d use himself.”

“He’s a man of mild emotions.”

“But it seems the Breakers too were not pleased recently, and he went to see.”

“So you did it behind his back.”

“I merely took a chance. Stolicus said to wait for the best moment and then strike like a snake.”

“Every warrior in history said that. And businessmen. And politicians.”

“The idea probably occurred first to Stolicus. Or his bibliographers.”

“Master Sulfur would surely be mildly displeased with them.”

It was lucky Orso wasn’t a lady, because the snort he gave was very unladylike. Then, he sighed.

“What couldn’t we have done together, eh, Savine?”

It felt rather disrespectful to say that in front of her baby. But she guessed she had time to mourn all that before him and he was slowly processing, not in love with her but with how he dreamt it would be.

As she finished feeding her son he began to whimper, like a cat out of milk. Babies were that simple. She held him, like Zuri did it, vaguely shaking him in a way that was meant to be soothing. But she was unconvinced and so was her son, and when he started to cry in a more decided manner someone looked at them rather pointedly. Orso winced. If crying was drawing attention, people might recognize him. He’d have to leave before that and she couldn’t blame him, couldn’t deny that being seen with her would be no good publicity for their righteous Union king. The one that hung traitors by dozens.

“Hold him,” she whispered. “You’ve had younger siblings.”

“Don’t give him to me. I was tree when Carlot was born.”

She forcefully put his whimpering nephew in his arms and he rocked him, managing to hum some child song while looking remarkably resentful.

They were men of pride, in Angland. Honest men. So it hadn’t been easy at first. Putting aside the past was one thing. Putting aside the present was another. Glaward had been ashamed of what Leo had seen, and Leo had been ashamed of what Glaward was seeing, but they had known each other for too long now and soon it all was like before. Less wrestling, maybe. And joking a bit too much, maybe, like Glaward was trying, but people had joked so less around Leo lately that he didn’t mind much.

“You ain’t a man to stop for so little, aren’t you? There are more warriors missing limbs in the north than not. Getting no injuries means you stayed in the back.”

Leo didn’t make a joke about Glaward being a coward, then. Cause it made him think too much about Jin and Antaup.

“Caul Shivers’ missing an eye. But everyone knows he got that by torture in Styria. And your Rikke girl… We don’t know how _that_ happened but she’s not one to fight.”

“So you’re saying missing an eye isn’t quite impressive, aye?”

“Damn right. No big deal.”

Jurand made a disapproving noise. He was sitting on the bed with his glass of wine. How the light fell on his dark hair, glinting golden, it made him look like quite the painting.

“Imagine the Bloody Nine losing a leg in the Circle.”

“And an arm.”

“Yes, a leg and an arm. Do you think he would’ve stopped fighting? He would’ve crawled his way to the other guy and he would’ve smashed his brain out.”

Though how you could do that crawling on the ground, Leo could only wonder. But the Bloody Nine probably had a huge sword.

“And Scale ruled the North with a missing hand.”

“That’s true.”

“And Rudd Threetrees was missing an arm.”

“Really?”

“Sure. Everyone knows that. He had arms and legs big as tree trunks, that’s how he got his name. Before the injury they knew him as Fourtrees.”

“Jurand?”

Jurand absentmindedly finished his glass.

“Of course, Leo. Everyone knows that.”

“By the dead.”

Then Glaward laughed and punched him on the shoulder. The one that couldn’t feel, fortunately. Even the Bloody Nine wouldn’t’ve smashed anyone’s brain out with no arm.

“You bloody liars.”

There were a dozen warriors in Skarling’s hall, none that Rikke knew. All coming from the Nail’s valleys, a way to make sure none of the bastards owed a thing to Black Calder. He was known for being cunning, and she didn’t care much for risks that could be avoided. Though he had agreed to come alone in the fortress and that sounded more stupid than cunning. That’s what Isern had said, anyways. The word Rikke would’ve used was desperate. He had more energy left in him, maybe 10 to 20 years, but he made her think of her father, looking all pale and worn-out by life. She reckoned there were probably more warriors than what was strictly necessary, but it was as much defence than strategy. It was always a plus to make a show of a young and scary-looking squadron to the most concerning of her enemies. Well, there was him and every person whose brothers she killed, but she didn’t know those. And the guy who killed Calder’s brother, he was the reason he was here.

 _We could kill him_ , Isern had told her before Calder came, like it was a brand-new idea devised by the moon herself. Rikke had thought about it a lot. The heart and the stone. Just like entering Carleon. Why give hundreds of gold to some bastards when you can off them. Why make friends with a guy that’ll always bring trouble when you can off him. But that’s not how she wanted to do things. And Calder was looking nothing like her da, and still everything like him.

“Thank you for seeing me.”

His tone and his manners were perfect in every way, full of (probably fake) attention and (definitely fake) respect. But there was something just a bit off about it, the tiniest taste that reveals sweet milk has gone sour.

“The pleasure is all mine. Nothing, after all, should prevent a parent from seeing their child.”

She knew Isern was probably rolling her eyes, and will mock her for overblown sentimentality, but what Rikke truly meant is that she wanted to prevent Calder from doing something stupid (or, worse, something smart) to get his son back. She could only guess that he understood this, for his face was giving nothing away.

“Or the other way around. I am very sorry about your father. I respected the Dogman, as everyone did here. Likeable enemies are barely enemies at all. The North lost a lot that day, and you most of all.”

She knew it might be all sweet-talk and empty words but it did feel good, still. Or she made it feel good, because she didn’t want to kill Calder, and she was desperately looking for excuses not to.

“Thank you for your words. I know he respected you, too.”

Well, Calder’s intelligence more than his principles, but neither she nor he came here expecting to say or hear more than half truths, so it didn’t really feel like a lie.

“Might I talk to my son?”

“Of course. It is the reason you are here for, after all.”

Calder bowed shortly before her, which was still a surprise, given how much older he was than her. But he didn’t seem like the type of man to let pride get in the way of his goals. He kneeled in front of the cage, the floor still wet from the last washing of Stour Nightfall’s piss. They washed there often, else the hall would start stinking hard. Ever since his father came, Stour had been sitting very near the bars, that hollow expression of his still on his face. Black Calder held the bars of the cage in his hands, knelt in water and, disappointingly enough, started whispering at his son. Rikke supposed they didn’t deem her worthy of eavesdropping on the family talk, still she would’ve liked to hear what he had to say.

Looking for her excuses.

Shivers probably heard it all, though. He had been standing close to the cage, Rikke’s champion, making sure Black Calder wasn’t about to try anything. The lad won a duel to Black Dow himself in the Circle, after all. Though everyone knew it was Shivers who killed Dow cause he had been disrespecting him, and no one tried to disrespect Shivers after that. It dawned on Rikke then that Shivers must’ve killed Dow after he spared the Bloody Nine, and his little speech about forgiveness rang a bit hollow.

Before the cage, Rikke had only ever seen two facial expressions on Stour Nightfall. Happiness and anger. So the empty look was a first surprise. That sad face he was making now was a second. Stour struck her as the kind of guy who stopped listening to his father at age two, but she guessed when you’ve been starving in a cage for weeks even an annoying cousin would be the best thing you’ve ever seen. Reminded you of what you lost. Calder’s face was mostly hidden from her, but to her horror she saw his shoulders start to shake. He had one hand on his son’s arm, and he wiped his face with the other.

“Who knew someone would cry for that asshole,” whispered Isern next to her.

Well, she didn’t really whisper. Isern wasn’t the whispering type. But Rikke hoped it was too low for Calder to hear.

“I guess parents do forgive anything.”

Isern snorted.

“That’d be the proof.”

Calder was back on his feet. He turned on his heels, and just like that his mask was back up. All polite, smiles and dry eyes. Of Stour Nightfall, she didn’t see much. He had retreated further against the walls.

“Whatever grievance you all had against my son, I don’t doubt it was justified. I’ll admit that both a hot temper and a permissive education made him into someone easier to hate than love. On that he’d agree with me.”

On that everyone in the room would agree with him.

“He was punished as you saw fit. I don’t have anything to say on that subject, as I stand with the losers. You played your hand well.”

He looked at the Nail. He had met him, after all, after his father’s death.

“We all realize he’ll never be of any threat to you anymore. He can’t stand up. He has no friends in the North. All I’m asking for is a chance to take my son back with me. As a father, and as a neighbour.”

The neighbour part to remind her of his allies, no doubt. But his eyes were soft as he glanced at the cage, his knees damp from the wet ground.

“Please Rikke, daughter of the Dogman. Life only gave me one child. You’ll never see him again. But I will. I know he can be someone better, I know he can start again. Didn’t the moon love my baby so much she paid a visit in the afternoon?”

He smiled weakly at Isern-i-Phail, but his tone was begging. He looked at Shivers, at someone from the Valleys. Back to her. Held her gaze, the one that made people scared. He didn’t seem scared, only sad. Only about to lose all he had.

“I’ll think about it,” she said, her voice less strong than she hoped. “Expect an answer from me soon.”

He bowed again, lower, and walked away slow as an old man. Rikke wondered what to think of it.

“If you want to know,” said Shivers from across the room, “he talked of Stour’s mother.”

Isern barked that harsh laugh of hers.

“I like him. He did that moon part just for me.”

“I say we kill Stour Nightfall,” said the Nail.

His eyes were hard.

“Black Calder is a viper. Once he gets his son back, there’s nothing stopping him from taking back Carleon.”

“Except the lack of men,” objected Rikke. “Or money. He got nothing. People loved Stour because he was the prince, because he was ambitious and because he was strong. Now he can’t stand up and he’s not worth dog shit. No one’s gonna rise to help his father, or to take back Carleon. The North is united at last, that’s all everyone’s ever wanted.”

“Everyone except for the Northmen that like to fight,” said Shivers.

They all stop to consider it for a moment.

“But we got a lot of those on our side,” said Rikke. “And in any way we can’t have Stour rotting away here forever. If Calder really wants Carleon and we kill his son he’ll still come, just way angrier.”

Isern looked her up and down in a way that made Rikke uncomfortable.

“You already decided you wanted to spare him, right?”

“Well, it makes more sense.”

“But it’s not about sense, right?”

Rikke shifted on her feet as if Isern herself was the Queen of the Northmen.

“I don’t like it,” said the Nail. “That’s not what you promised.”

“Vengeance is what I promised. He lost everything.”

He looked grim, and she wondered if she would have to regret this decision in the future. She had to ask to the ol’ witch Rikke, that girl knew all that was gonna happen to everyone. She almost giggled. Burden off her shoulders, letting the bastard live. Never thought she’d live to think that.


	2. Chapter 2

Her golden hair was spiking in all the weird angles, and he tried to flatten it with his palms. 

“You’d make quite the princess,” he said in all seriousness.

“You’ve always had the lowest standards for royalty.”

But she seemed a little pleased. Truth be told, it was harder and harder to have a tomboy with a cap rotating around him in prestigious receptions, and still he trusted no one else not to put anything in his glass. Especially among Styrians. So he got Hildi pretty clothes and they’d have to do with it. Not a dress, mind you. But with her round face and shortish hair, she could probably pass as anyone’s valet.

It was a diplomatic party, a meeting between the King of the Union and the King of Styria. Officially. Instead, Orso found when entering the room, the people there didn’t treat him as the very best topic of the evening. Or even half the best topic. Or half the half. They had to be high enough in society to know that it wasn’t the king who held the cards, and that there were better people to make friends with. That, or his reputation had preceded him. Why be despised by many citizens in the Union when you could be despised by plenty in the Circle of the World?

There was a large man sprawled on a velvet sofa at a corner of the room, laughing heartily with a group of noblemen.

“Fetch me a glass,” he whispered at Hildi.

He intended not to depend on Jappo’s wine twice in a row. The first time made you look like a friend, the second like a beggar.

“He seems busy.”

“The one aim of this party is for me and him to talk. He won’t be busy for me.”

Or so he hoped, since the room was full of Styrian noblemen he didn’t know. Except for that woman, maybe, in the back. She had that bony face he was sure he had seen in a painting before, but that he couldn’t quite place as she moved towards him.

“I have been waiting for you, King Orso. Though I hope your relationship with me won’t alter the one you have with my son.”

Monzcarro Murcatto. Of course. He had never met her. Some said she hadn’t stopped ruling Styria at the coronation of her son – which was to be hoped, since he was seven at the time. But you could see on her face that the battlefields she roamed weren’t those that got won over by a dress and a fake smile. And she hadn’t bothered to wear either tonight.

“I can’t deny your family and mine have somewhat of a feud going on, but the preoccupations of my mother rarely overlapped with mine after I learned how to tie my shoes.” Orso answered in Styrian.

She raised her brow.

“You speak well enough. You won’t be as lost as I thought.”

“I am not sure that will suffice. I am an unwelcome foreigner here.” 

“They only come to royal gatherings to be seen and strike deals. The worst kind of leeches.”

“Some would say,” answered Orso in a rhetorical tone, “that we noblemen are firstly leeches of the commoners’ labour.”

Then he realized his mistake.

How different the two of them. How different the roof they were born under. Murcatto had the good grace not to correct him, probably used to all those privileged bastards talking of misery in their golden clothes; and seeing himself from her perspective made him feel uneasy.

“Those aren’t noblemen. Those are merchants.”

“Oh.”

The Union’s guild of merchants had been terminated way before Orso was born. It just wouldn’t do to attribute political weight to people who made a name for themselves by being hard-working, visionary or cunning. Better leave it all to those born with it. It spoke much about both their countries, perhaps, to have had his father and Murcatto coming to power a few years in between. One a nobleman revealed as the King’s bastard son, the other a military woman born from farmers. The legitimacy of their leader stemmed from what people valued above all.

“I heard your mother is staying in Sipani, I thought she might join us tonight.”

“I’m not sure she would have been very welcome. The memory of my grandfather isn’t the most cherished.”

Not to say widely reviled, Murcatto and her Minister of Whispers had made sure of that.

“Then I don’t doubt she’s spending her time in more enjoyable company than that of our good merchants. Although maybe speaking Styrian still.”

Her tone was cold and her eyes hard. Orso’s blood froze in his veins. She could only be referring to Shalere. So that was why she had come to talk to him. He hadn’t expected it to be for his winning personality, but hadn’t expected threats either. She went on:

“Let us talk plainly. I don’t know what kind of schemes you have in mind, but do not expect me to be a passive spectator if you attempt anything against my people or my country. A hair on their heads or an inch of its ground. The Duchy of Talins included. Are we clear?”

It was one of life’s great injustices, thought Orso, that people thought him clueless when he had plans, and conniving when he came as a friend. Though perhaps not many people thought of him as conniving, and it was almost gratifying to be granted that intellectual capacity by someone like Murcatto. Orso couldn’t even imagine how many people she had threatened with that icy stare of her. Every bit of a general, not bothering herself with flourish or grand figures of speech. The Serpent of Talins.

“Very clear.”

“Very well. I have better things to do in my country than amassing debts to pay for personal vendettas and I am sure you do too.”

“One has enough time to make questionable decisions not to start by perpetuating their parents’.”

“Indeed. Although you and Jappo were both named after your mothers’ fathers. Family grips close and doesn’t let go.”

It sounded plenty ironic, given the things people muttered about her and her late brother. But then Orso realized how hypocritical it was of him to even think that and, by the Fates, that wasn’t something he needed a reminder of. When Murcatto left, he was feeling fairly irritated.

“I’ve seen nicer people,” chimed in Hildi.

He took the glass of wine she was holding and gulped it down.

“For your sake, I hope so.”

“Seeing King Jappo mon Smugface next then?”

“I guess I am. You don’t like him?”

He himself wasn’t sure what to think of King Jappo, especially now that he had met his mother. Hildi got on her tiptoes, trying to make out features from the other side of the room and frowned.

“He’s not my type.”

Orso snorted.

“Don’t worry, you’re not his type either.”

“I’d worry if I was the type of anyone in this room.”

He felt glad to have Hildi with him. And Gorst, too, looming near the wall, barely getting his eyes off him. But Orso preferred not to think about this, or he’d be feeling self-conscious about the way he put one foot after the other.

“I heard King Jappo loves brothels and gambling, you wouldn’t notice the difference if we got swapped.”

“Don’t they hire anyone competent to be king nowadays?”

“I wish they would. Fetch me another glass.”

Jappo was listening to a group of young men talking, leaning on the couch in a way so nonchalant it had to be calculated. Son of a tactician, of course, and Orso found himself wondering how much of the show was for him only. Was he casually stroking the hair of the lad sitting next to him at every meeting he went to? It would surely become awkward if you had a close-minded neighbour. He blinked. Blond hair, soft jaw, was it him or…

“The king’s friend looks like you,” whispered Hildi while handing him a full glass.

Jappo might be a good politician, or he might not be. But he truly was an unsettling man, and probably a dangerous enemy to have. As it was, coming with good intentions, Orso found the whole show pretty amusing. He took a step forward.

“Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

King Jappo raised his eyes, pretended to notice him for the first time, and greeted him with a large smile.

“All the more since you are here. Please take a seat.”

He gestured towards the couch in front of his own, and every man sitting on it got up at the same time. A waitress offered him a glass of wine that he declined, and she put the pitcher on the table between them. It was a surprise there wasn’t one already, if people had been talking here before Orso arrived.

Theatrics, rehearsed lines, welcome to Styria.

“I hope you had a pleasant journey, coming all the way from Adua.”

“I did, thank you. Styria’s countryside is charming.”

Orso’s doppelganger had got up, too, so that the two of them were alone. Jappo leaned forward, his arms on his knees.

“I saw you talk to my mother. Formidable woman, isn’t she?”

“Someone you don’t want as your enemy for sure.”

“Good thing this will not happen.”

Orso nodded, slowly sipping wine. Jappo looked at him in silence, open face and watchful eyes. Waiting for Orso to start, then.

“I noticed you didn’t intervene during our civil war. I am most grateful for it. The games were tight and the stakes high.”

Something he had already said in a letter, but thanks were never a bad conversation starter.

“I wouldn’t want to tarnish our prospect of peace. A group taking power through revolution will never look away from the bloodiest solutions.”

Something he had already answered. Which had made Orso think of a nice parallel with Murcatto getting the throne – but he hadn’t said that then and wasn’t about to now.

“Well, then. Should we get started?”

“Haven’t seen you much around here lately, Jonas Clover.”

“Likewise. Why don’t you ever come visit?”

Stour Nightfall snarled. Ask anyone, the guy lost all his fight in the cage. But it seemed he could always gather some up for Clover. It was sunny outside and the hall was empty, just the two of them. Word went that Stour Nightfall was to be released soon, so suddenly people weren’t falling over themselves to mock him anymore. Take the leash out of a wolf and you’ll never see them smile quite as much, like it was something they had never expected to happen. Clover had rarely gone to see Stour since he’d been brought there. Two times, three at most. One might’ve expected him to look for revenge and snarl at him a bit for a change, if one had cared. But Clover was not the gloating type. Didn’t understand why he had ever been.

“I hear your father was getting you out.”

“He is.”

“He’s a smart man, your father. Respectable man. Seems like he did the whole show. Everyone's saying Sly Calder lost all his tricks but it's the moment you think that that he wins, eh?”

Stour Nightfall didn’t answer, but made a point of looking angry. Must be tough for someone like him, to get saved by your da crying on the floor of Skarling’s hall. Admittedly, it was a bit funny. Black Calder had never let pride get in the way of his goals, while Stour had killed people for looking at him wrong. And one was definitely faring better than the other. Clover had never quite understood how a man like this could make a son like that, but he didn’t ask. It could probably be considered as gloating.

“I just came to bid your farewell. I hope we never see each other again.”

“If we do, it’ll be that I’m here to kill you," he spat, his voice dry from unuse. "I don't mind going there crawling.”

“Please don't. I don’t even remember how to hold a sword.”

Stour hissed.

“By the dead can’t you drop the act?” 

Clover had noticed from the beginning how infuriating it was for Stour Nightfall, being unable to find Jonas Steepfield in him. He sat near the cage, noticing too late how wet, for some reason, the floor was.

“I thought you would learn a lesson, after all that happened.”

“Surrounding myself with the right people, for sure.”

It was probably meant to be hurtful but if there was a group of assholes right for Stour fucking Nightfall to surround himself with, Clover was glad he wasn’t part of it.

“Then don’t choose your allies by their willingness to gut their friends,” he answered, but if good words cut like swords he felt he took them by the blade rather than the hilt this time.

“That you did. That you know how to do. Gutted them all in front of me like the lowest bastard of the North,” Stour snarled.

“Awful thing to do to a friend,” he agreed with a forced smile. “Imagine to an uncle.”

Scale Ironhand’s memory passed between them and there was a silence like two men standing at a grave, preparing to piss. Clover was becoming very aware of the cold wet floor under him, and he got up.

“Don’t get into your head that I’m the one who brought this on you. Or that the Long Eye girl did. That cage is a palace compared to what they should’ve gotten you.”

Nightfall snarled again, and a clear voice rang into the hall.

“Jonas Clover. What are you doing here?”

The Nail and a few valley men had entered the room.

“Oh, you know.” Clover shrugged. There was no denying it now. “Gloating.”

“I heard he killed your friend. You probably heard he killed my da. So don’t stop for me.”

Clover wondered how literal it was meant to be taken and if he had to throw in some new insults to please the company, but the Nail had already walked to the cage. He gripped one of the bars, tried to shake it. Stour bared his teeth. One of the valley men took some steps forward, a bottle in his hand he was handling with great care. Another one was unrolling a rope, glancing through the window.

“I reckon the daughter of the Dogman didn’t send you here”, said Clover.

The Nail sent him one of his unhinged smiles and Clover, who deemed himself a specialist in all kinds of treason, felt almost disappointed he hadn’t seen this one coming.

“Taking the Great Wolf out for a walk, are you?”

“A really nice walk around the woods. He’ll stay here for a bit of time,” he added with a look that stripped Clover of any wish to walk in the woods for a bit of time. So that was how Stour Nightfall was gonna go down. Throat slit in a bush.

Life, he mused, wasn’t fair to anyone. Some people got way better than they deserved.

Now the guy at the window was fastening the end of the rope around a stone statue, and something liquid was dripping from the bottle onto the bars. The third man was keeping watch at the door. Fast, efficient, but you had to be when taking away prisoners from a throne room.

“Type of acid from the Crinna,” said the Nail, gesturing towards the bars that were slowly melting away. “To throw them off. But I’m not sure anyone’s gonna look hard for a murderer’s murderer.”

Then he put his hand on Clover’s shoulder and walked the both of them towards the entrance of the hall. Not harshly, but not giving him much of a choice either. Stour Nightfall was snarling but didn't try to shout. He had probably decided that a knife through your throat was better than acid down your face.

“I’m going now, I have to be seen doing things. I’d do the same if I were you, Clover, some people probably saw you come in. I know you’re the one who put the man here so I trust you enough. But needless to say, if you were to reveal or imply anything, I have a dozen men who’ll swear on their fathers’ Names to have seen you kill the bastard.”

Being one of the last men in the North to have seen Stour Nightfall alive seemed like a privilege to make up for the threats. When Clover looked behind him one last time, the Wolf was being dragged out of the cage by the throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright that's all I had in mind! I may add more later but Vick seems hard to write  
> Hope you enjoyed :D


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